In The Cold Light of Truth
by ravenoak21
Summary: While working on a case in which Sherlock is injured, Lestrade is forced to open a cold case. Not because it wasn't solved, but because a murder was attempted and never investigated.
1. Chapter 1

"**In The Cold Light of Truth"**

**While working on a case, Sherlock is injured and Lestrade is forced to reopen a cold case. **

**Not because it wasn't solved but because a murder was attempted and never investigated.**

**Spoilers for "The Adventure of The Illustrious Client" canon. As always, I do not own Sherlock and Co. That great honor is held by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the creative staff and actors of the BBC.**

Dr. Mr. Holmes,

I do not usually resort to communicating with strangers, especially over the computer. One never knows who is really on the other end, do they? So easy to hide one's true identity, or so it seems to me. But I really do need your assistance for I can't imagine the police being any help at all. The man's crime has been refuted by a jury, but I very much do fear for my daughter's safety. If you would permit me to come around, at your convenience, of course.

Most sincerely yours,

de M.

John watched as his flat mate's fingers steepled together and pressed against his lips. (John couldn't bring himself to think of anything prayerful in the gesture except, perhaps, in the context of the mantis) as the clear hazel eyes rapidly scanned the screen before them.

"Something come up then?"

"It does hold a glimmer of interest"

Long graceful fingers spun the laptop around so that John could read the email for himself. When he was finished, he turned the machine back towards Sherlock who took it and started typing.

"Yes. I do believe this one merits an interview. Do you have any plans for tomorrow, say, in the afternoon? 4:30?"

"Eemm, no. I'm only scheduled for a half day."

"Excellent."

000

Sherlock spent the rest of the day stretched out on the sofa, laptop propped open on his abdomen, surfing the web. Something in the email had piqued his curiosity.

"Want I should order take out?"

"Not hungry."

"No no, no, no. You're not pulling that now."

"Pulling what?"

"That "I don't eat while on a case, it slows me down" thing. You can eat at least tonight."

"I do have a case."

"Sherlock, you haven't even seen the client yet...bloody hell. You've already started working on it."

"It has a couple of distinct points."

"It's not going to work. You don't officially start a case until you conclude an interview with a yes."

Sherlock's brow rippled into a frown. "Who decided that?"

"I did."

The young consulting detective turned his head in John's direction, eyes never leaving the computer screen. "Why would you? I can make up my own mind about such things, thank you very much."

"You can't just go fainting all over the place."

That got Sherlock's full attention with a scoffing roll of the eyes. "Oh please. Do stop exaggerating!"

"I'm not! You faint more then any one I know. As a doctor and, more importantly, your friend, I _am_ going for food and you _are_ having some supper. You're _not_ going to start pushing yourself, _yet_"

Pale hands flew up to cover the hazel eyes with the palms. John watched the jaw clench and a strangled sound of frustration issued from pursed lips. But he wasn't about to back down.

"Oh...fine, then." One hand flipped at him in a shooing motion. "Go."

John snatched his jacket and fairly flew down the stairs and out the door. He thanked his lucky stars that there were restaurants on Baker Street or near to and Sherlock liked most of them. Knowing his flat mate's liking for chicken curry, he phoned ahead to order. With any luck at all it would be ready by the time he got there and little time would be lost. The last thing he wanted was to give Sherlock time to take a runner. As he had hoped, the food was ready and bagged. He paid, grabbed the order fairly running back up the street. But as he neared the front door of 221B he slowed. The clear sweet notes of a well played violin drifted softly in the evening air. All was well, until tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

"**In The Cold Light of Truth"**

**First of all I would like to thank those people who have tagged and are following this. It is humbling but so very much appreciated. I want to especially thank IamDoctorWholocked for the review. I do find that I write something everyday, and so will update as soon as I can.**

**As always I do not own or have any claim on Sherlock and Co. Thank you's go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the wonderful, bright, talented people of BBC's Sherlock.**

John arrived back at Baker Street at 2:15 in the p.m. the next day to find Sherlock perched on his favorite chair. His fingers plucking the strings of his Stradivarius in a distracted manner, his eyes fixed on the middle distance. Whether he was simply deep in thought or wandering through his mind palace John didn't know and wasn't about to intrude. He made himself tea, discovered that Mrs. Hudson had brought up a plate of scones, ( by the evidence of some crumbs scattered on the side board Sherlock had indulged in at least one) and delightedly found that there was actually edible jam and butter.

Making up a plate, he went back into the setting room, booted up his laptop and started checking his email and blog. The flat was quiet and John found the soft ticking of the mantle clock and the muted ring of strings relaxing. He was determined to enjoy this pleasant interlude for as long as it lasted, because they seldom lasted very long.

At the sudden deep indrawn breath John glanced up to find his flat mate planted firmly in the present and with quick, precise movements was putting the precious instrument away. The blogger's mind was suddenly flooded with a thought bordering on the insane and what would pass for him, sinister, but would be perversely satisfying. Experiment indeed. He dipped his head putting all his attention on his computer screen because he couldn't stop the smile from forming and he prayed that he could actually keep from chuckling out loud.

"What."

_Oh god, I am seriously screwed. _Then putting on what he hoped was his most innocent face, John look up.

"Hhhmmm?"

Sherlock was watching him.

"Ooohhh... it's nothing. Just a stray thought. Not important."

"It amused you."

"Well...yes...I suppose it did. But..."

"What was it."

"Sherlock, really." John sighed. _No need to fake that. _"Thoughts are supposed to be private."

"Ah...yes. Of course. Very true." The tone indicating that Sherlock's mind had shifted gears, again. But he did flash John a half smile. It was acknowledged with a nod as John turned his attention back to his blogging.

000

The doorbell rang at 4:27 and Sherlock went down to answer it, John grabbed a note pad and pen the perched a hip on the table. Footsteps soon ascended the stairs, one set slow, almost labored. As Sherlock and his guest gained the flat's foyer John glanced up and immediately slipped off the table and took two steps towards the door only to be motioned to a stand still.

"No need, young man. Do sit down. I am not all that far gone yet." The elderly man held out a hand.

"You must be Dr. Watson. My daughter is quite taken with your and Mr. Holmes' websites."

John took the offered hand and at the feel of the bird-like bones, applied no pressure.

"Thank you, sir."

"John, may I introduce General Oliver de Merville."

John's eyes lit up with a genuine smile. "It is indeed a pleasure to meet you sir."

"If you would take a seat, General." Sherlock breezed by him, indicating the empty chair across from his own.

"Of course, Mr. Holmes."

The two military men released the handshake, John returning to his pad, pen, and perch. The General to take the offered chair.

"General, in your letter you said you feared for your daughter's safety. Please elaborate."

"Yes. My Violet has become engaged to a man whom I fear might do her great harm. He has been accused of killing his wife. I know that he was acquitted of the charge but I do not feel comfortable in my mind that he is as innocent as my daughter is determined to believe."

"You speak of Baron Adelbert Gruner."

"You know of him, Mr. Holmes?"

"I have looked into the particulars of the case. I must agree that he posses a definite threat. How did your daughter meet the Baron?"

"On a Mediterranean cruise. She has a very curious and inquiring mind. I think that if the Middle East was not in such a turmoil she would very much like to take studies there. But I digress, my apologies. It was a select tour. He, being a Baron, had no problem booking passage. Straight away, as Violet tells it, he became quite friendly and attached. She enjoys his company and now they are engaged. I have tried to dissuade her. But she refuses to hear anything bad about him. He tells her that his wife's death was a terrible and tragic accident. That he still grieves for her deeply. Violet is so in love and her heart is totally loyal to him. She takes him at his word for everything he says."

"How may I help you."

"As I said, Violet has a curiosity that is not easily satisfied. She follows your blog faithfully. I am hoping that she would listen to you as she listens to no one else. Because this is, in every sense of the word, killing me."

"Very well, I will see what I can do."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes..."

"Has the wedding been set yet?"

"No, but Violet has mentioned that they plan to take a trip soon. Near the end of August, I believe. I will get the particulars from her and send them on to you immediately."

"That would be of the utmost importance, yes."

The General stood and reached out. Sherlock took the offered hand.

"Bless you, Mr Holmes."

"See him out, John?"

"Of course."

After helping the elderly man safely down to the street and hailing him a cab, John returned to the flat to find Sherlock gazing out the window.

"What do you think?"

"If the girl is in danger and we an stop a murder before it happens, then it's all to the good, yeah."

"My thoughts as well. Baron Gruner murdered his wife. He is declared innocent only because the witness conveniently dies under questionable circumstances...yes... if tragedy can be diverted, so much the better."

"Will you see the daughter tomorrow then?"

Fingers steepled and Sherlock's chin rests on them.

"Oh, no. I think I will call on Baron Adelbert Gruner first."


	3. Chapter 3

**First of all I want to thank all those who are subscribing and adding alerts for this. I can't tell you how appreciative I am. I also want to thank IamDoctorWholocked, Nos, and chaoticmom for their reviews. They are helpful and keep the motivation up.**

**Spoilers for "The Adventure of the Illustrious Client" canon still holds but my own brainstorm will start to happen in this chapter. I hope you continue to enjoy. If not, please let me know why.**

**As always, I do not own anything pertaining to Sherlock Holmes nor the BBC's updated rendition, Sherlock.**

John was scheduled to work the next day and it was a bit hectic. A minor traffic accident with cuts and contusions came early in the day. A couple of skateboarders got carried away hotdogging and ended up with a badly twisted knee and multiple abrasions. Thank god they had been wearing the proper equipment. By the time his shift was over he was more then ready to head home for a hot cuppa and a leisurely soak. He had just gotten out of cab, paid up and was turning towards his front door when it was flung open by a scruffy teen who jumped the step and bolted down the sidewalk.

"I do hope that was one of the Irregulars"

"It was."

"And Baron Gruner?"

"He was expecting me, "sooner or later", in his words. It seems he knew that Miss de Merville's family would seek to keep this union from happening."

"I suppose he didn't back down."

"Oh, most decidedly not. I have been warned off."

John looked at him sharply. "Warned off, how?'

"The ruin of my reputation, at the least. Bodily harm if I prove persistent."

"He would do it too, wouldn't he."

"No question. A french agent was crippled permanently for investigating him."

"How did you find that out?"

"The Baron told me. He is not above boastfulness, but he is a man who would say less then he means."

John racked a hand through his hair and cast a long glance towards his flatmate."I don't have to tell you how dangerous this all sounds."

"Oh, yes, most dangerous indeed."

John didn't miss the brief widening of those clear hazel eyes, and the tight feral smile that touched Sherlock's lips. He was in his element. The rich baritone was close to a purr.

"And Miss de Merville?"

"I will need some concrete proof to lay before this young lady that is why I have put the Irregulars on his scent. He trifles with affections and brings them to ruin. The Baron has been in England for some time. I have every confidence that they can find an unfortunate victim brave and willing enough to speak out against him. They will be protected, of course."

"God, I would hope so. I suppose it would do no good to alert Lestrade?"

"None."

"Right."

000

The next day, John came home to an empty flat. He wasn't surprised. Sherlock was on the hunt. John knew that it might be awhile before the consulting detective made an appearance. He took a hot shower and made a light supper of tea and Mrs. Hudson's scones, then settled into his chair to indulge himself in some mindless crap tele.

He was awakened from a light doze by the brash sound of the doorbell. Giving an annoyed huff, he went down stairs.

"Who is it?"

"It's Greg."

John opened the door and stepped back. "Come in"

"Thank you, John, I know it's a bit late."

John waved the would be apology aside. "It's alright, I'm not tired."

"Sherlock in?"

The two made their way back up the the flat. Lestrade taking a seat while John moved towards the lab/kitchen. "Get you something?"

"I'm off duty, so a beer, if you have any."

"He's working on a case for a private client." John handed Lestrade a cold bottle and took his own chair.

"Ah. Thank you." He took the bottle and sipped.

"I have a case with a few points that I would like to run by him, just to make sure I've got them in the right context..."

221B was suddenly filled with the persistent ringing of the bell and what sounded like a full out assault on the door itself.

"What the bloody hell."

John was out of his chair and charging down the stairs, :Lestrade close on his heels. John flung the door open to find a knot of people gathered on the step.

"I do hope you are a doctor. This man refused an ambulance..."

"Up stairs, now! Lestrade, show them where the bathroom is!"

John ordered sharply as he spun on his heel and bolted up to his room, grabbing up his medical bag and fully charged kit. He had caught the glimpse of a bowed head, dark hair glistening wetly. In no way were those bright red highlights water. He came back down to find the setting room the scene of a small whirlwind. The eye being the injured party.

"Just...stop! Every one...just do, shut up!"

The voice was pain filled and broken but it brought a stunned silence to the chaos. Lestrade and John recovered quickly and moved to flank him.

"Sherlock, we've got to get you into the bathroom."

"I think, I would rather lie down."

"No. not yet. By the looks you have a rather nasty head wound. Your bleeding profusely. I have to take a look. You have to be setting up where I can get at it. Are you injured anywhere else."

"Ribs, shoulders.."

"How many where there."

"Do try not to be dull, Lestrade."

"Assailants. How many."

"Two, that I saw. A possible third."

As they conversed, Sherlock was maneuvered into the bathroom. Once seated and braced up by two of the witnesses, John went to work finding the head wound. He discovered two deep lacerations. He grabbed a barber's razor and a roll of gauze to clear the area and get the bleeding under control in preparation of suturing the wounds closed. While John was in full medical mode, Lestrade became all business as well. It would also help distract Sherlock while John tended to his torn scalp.

"Do you know who is responsible for this?"

"I know who sent them...yes."

"Who."

"I'm working on it. I need use of a phone."

"Can't it wait."

"No...it cannot."

Lestrade took stock of Sherlock's breathing pattern and it wasn't good. The man was drawing breath from the base of his throat that indicated the inability or reluctance to draw deep breaths. John noticed as well.

"If you would, strip him to the waist. I'll check his ribs as soon as I'm done here."

As gently as he could, Lestrade worked on the waistcoat and dress shirt easing each open and back off the injured man's shoulders.

"Oh, dear... God. This was murderous."

John clamped down on the desire to look. _One thing at a time, one thing...at a time. _He repeated the mantra over and over focusing on making the sutures neat and clean. Forcing his hands to take their time. This couldn't be rushed. The man under his hands was wounded but alive. Still breathing. Awake and lucid.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Phone. Now! GOD!"

That cost him and his world slipped a little bit sideways but it got the desired results.

Lestrade dug his phone out. "What do you need."

A number was given and the text dictated. Sherlock was getting peeved. It took far longer and taxed him beyond what his patients and current physical condition could tolerate gladly. All he wanted to do was curl up in a dark, quite corner and be left alone.

"You found someone willing to talk to Miss de Merville?"

"The Irregulars did, yes."

"Sherlock, we need to wash your hair it's all over blood. You need to be cleaned up. The sutures are finished but I want all this blood cleared away before I apply the antiseptic and bandages."

Pain thrummed deep in his throat, but he gathered himself for this new onslaught of torture.

"Get on with it, then."

"Towels and clean sheets. There's a basin under the kitchen sink. Sheets and towels are in a cupboard outside my room."

Lestrade nodded and went to fulfill the request. When he got back with the basin and linen Sherlock's ruined vest and shirt were discarded in a corner. John was running water. Then Lestrades own breath caught, the bundle in his arms all but forgotten. Welts and bruises covered the porcelain flesh of Sherlock's back.

Lestrade swallowed. "You sure you don't want to go to hospital?"

"I made you a promise."

"And you have kept it for three years."

"Wrong, Detective Inspector, you are still, wrong."

"What did I miss that day, Sherlock?"

"The truth."


	4. Chapter 4

**There are many people following this and I am thrilled. I would like to thank each one of you for your support and interest. You know who you are. I'm afraid that if I tried to list you here I would forget someone and then I would feel really bad about that.**

**Still some Spoilers for "The Adventure of the Illustrious Client" canon, although I must warn you, my brainstorm is in full swing from now on.**

**As always, I own nothing pertaining to Sherlock Holmes created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or the BBC's Sherlock. Fun to visit with though.**

Lestrade wandered out into the kitchen mostly turned lab. He hunted up the makings for coffee and tea. Not an easy thing providing eyewitness accounts. Every word being weighed, written down to be scrutinized later. The officers, no doubt, would appreciate some fortification as well. It was already a long day and it looked like the night might be longer still.

"What did I miss that day, Sherlock? The truth" ran through his mind like a mantra, like a tape set on loop, as he made sure coffee mugs and spoons were clean and fit for human use. What he hadn't missed was the fact that Sherlock had collapsed right in front of him. And he surely hadn't missed the fact that there had been a fresh needle track on Sherlock's arm. But Sherlock had sworn adamantly that he was clean, but it hadn't helped that he was starting to pass out at the time. The real hell of it was that Lestrade himself had been sure that the cocky, over opinionated, brilliantly astute, self proclaimed consulting detective had been clean when he arrived on that crime scene.

He carried a tray of mugs, sugar, milk pitcher and spoons to where the witnesses were waiting their turn to be questioned. Then returned to the kitchen to fill the coffee pot and fix proper tea. As he carried the two steaming pots of stimulant out to the interview area, Lestrade stopped off to see how John and Sherlock were holding up. Sherlock was leaning forward, elbows planted on knees, face buried in his hands while John was gently patting the now clean dark head dry. Lestrade moved on to put the two pots down by the tray, then went and sent John two "assistants" out to wait for their turn with the officers.

John lathered two sticky plasters with antiseptic and covered the sutured gashes. Then he knelt down in front of his patient and tapped him on the back of the neck to get his attention. "Listen to me now. I'm done. Greg is here and we're going to help you out to the sofa. Ready?"

"Yes."

Lestrade slipped his left arm around the wounded man's waist, his right hand holding Sherlock's right arm just above the elbow. John did the same on Sherlock's left side.

"Alright, on the count of three, we're going to get you up. One, two, three, lift."

With their help, Sherlock could moving under his own power, but John could tell he was pretty much spent. Slowly they made their way out the sitting room. Once Sherlock was deposited on the sofa, John went to get pillows and a blanket while Lestrade sat beside the totally lethargic Sherlock. Not quite asleep for he kept fighting it like a young child trying to convince the adults in the room he could stay up past his bedtime and failing, his eyes rolling shut, only to snap open and blink owlishly. It wasn't until John returned and positioned the pillows the way he wanted and Sherlock was allowed to lay prone that he gave himself up to the welcoming arms of Pasithea.

John stood and stretched.

"I made coffee if you would like some."

"God, yes. Thank you, Greg."

When Lestrade returned John was perched on the edge of the sofa, his sure doctor's fingers exploring the badly bruised torso. There was not so much as a flinch from the body underneath those capable hands. Lestrade put one of the steaming mugs on the coffee table and took a sip of his own.

"Detective Inspector, sir?"

Lestrade looked at the officer beckoning him, then moved to join her. She was holding what looked like a very expensive walking stick in her latex covered hand.

"Sir, one of the eyewitnesses said that this was one of weapons used on the victim. He was able to wrestle it away from his attacker and use it to defend himself. The witness said that the victim gave him the stick to hold for us because he was already wearing gloves. So the only fingers prints should be the victim's and his assailant who used it."

"Did they say how many were in on the attack?"

"The consensus is three, sir. Two confronted him outright with the other held back in ambush. But once the victim was able to arm himself, he laid into them, driving them off, with the help of some of the witnesses. A young woman started using her rape whistle."

"Good work, Sargent. Get that thing bagged and tagged."

"Right away, sir. Thank you, sir."

The sargent turned away and Lestrade glanced towards the sofa. John was finished with his examination and was spreading the blanket over his patient.

"Anything broken?"

"Surprisingly enough, I can't find any signs of a serious break. It would have been ideal to have him awake but he's been through enough for one night. I can do it again when he's more rested. He's also going to have to do deep breathing excersises to avoid pneumonia. I bet he won't consider breathing boring for awhile."

"What?"

"Oh, its something he said during those cabbie murders. I got back to the flat after examing the lady in pink. He had applied three nicotine patches to his arm. Said it was impossible to maintain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work. I said it was good for breathing. His reply to me was, "Breathing, breathing is boring.""

"Why would he apply three nicotine patches, for God's sake?"

"Well...according to him...it was a "three patch problem.""

John found the mug Lestrade had put out for him, grabbed it, took a sip and found a confortable seat.

"Greg, may I ask you a question?"

"Sure, of course."

"What did he mean, when he said you were still wrong?"

Lestrade got up from his chair and paced. That question was niggling at him. He paused to look down at the somnolent figure on the sofa and suddenly his mind was flooded with bright, clear, lucid memory. Slowly he stood up straight. In his mind's eye he saw himself standing beside Sherlock as they confer over the points of the crime scene. He sees a look come over Sherlock's face. Surprise, but confusion is there too.

John opened his mouth to ask if something is wrong but shuts it quickly. How many times had he seen that look on Sherlock's face when he had been working to recall something up from his memory.

"Oh. Bloody. Hell. That's what I missed. When Sherlock collapsed that day. He wasn't scared, thinking that I was about to find out he had screwed up. He was surprised, perplexed. He had no idea what was going on or why it should be happening."

"What are you talking about?"

"There was a case, three, almost four years ago now. I called Sherlock in because he had been clean for over a year, and the scene was a right bloody mess. A puzzle right up his ally. He arrived and I looked for any sign of backslidding. I would have sworn on a stack of any amount of Bibles that he was clean. He looks it over and we get together to compare notes and right in the middle of a word he goes down. No warning, no nothing. Just collapses. I knelt by his side, and he's watching my face. I see somehing there, but it's not fear. Not a first. And he denied using. Of course, I have to check. And yes, there was a fresh puncture wound. His exact words..."I didn't...it's not self inflicted...I wouldn't...I promised." Of course, he had relapsed before, but he never lied about. So why lie about it now. After three years of successful detective work and being clean. No, he was realizing something was wrong. Terribly wrong, and he was trying to make me understand. Dammit!"

"Wouldn't the hospital's blood work report told you what happened?"

"He never got to a civilian hospital, that I know of."

"Mycroft?"

Lestrade racked his fingers through his hair and sighed.

"Yeah, the bloody git. As soon as Sherlock hit the ground I called hospital first, Mycroft second. That big black car comes swooping in, beating the ambulance by close to fifteen minutes, two burly men in designer suits jump out, bundle Sherlock into the back and I don't see him again for almost three months. So I'm left with the impression of an not so recovering junkie with a fresh track."

"And neither Holmes fills in the details after those three months?"

"Sherlock showed up at my house one night. He steps into the light and just stands there. I get the very distinct feeling that if I told him to get off my property, he would have disappeared and never come back. So, I invite him in. We talk a little, he can't or won't tell me what happened that day. He finally gets around to asking if he could at least look at some cold cases. It's was his way of asking me to trust him again. Like he knows I think he slipped and he won't tell me any different. From Mycroft, nothing. Well, he's going to hear from me now. I need to know what happened. If I dropped the ball then, I certainly don't want to drop the ball again now."

"So...what? If, and knowing him, I tend to believe Sherlock is telling the truth, and he didn't fall back on his habit. The alternetive is..."

"Attempted murder...perhaps? But someone would have to be pretty stupid, crazy or have a lot of self-confidence to attempt a murder in front of a whole squade of Metro police. So now we are left with the questions, who would want to do it, why...and most importantly...what was the intended murder weapon and where the hell is it.?"


	5. Chapter 5

**I want to thank all the people who are reading this. And all the people who have commented. You are awesome, people, simply awesome.**

**As always, I own nothing pertaining to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Sherlock Holmes, or The BBC's Sherlock.**

"It wouldn't be in the evidence room?"

"It's been over three years, but I don't remember any syringes being collected. I will be checking on that in the morning. That and pulling all the case files for that crime scene, right after I put a call through to Mr. Mycroft Holmes requesting he send me a copy of Sherlock's medical files for that time period."

"Good luck with that, mate."

"Yeah, I know. But Mr. Holmes can be a little touchy where his brother is concerned. He can surprise you sometimes. Hopefully, this will be one of those times.'

"Sir, we're finished with the interviews."

"Fine, Sargent. You can send everyone home."

"Very good, sir."

Lestrade stood and stretched then moved towards the impromptu interrogation room.

"Leave it. I'll take care of it in the morning."

"You sure? You could have your hand's full." Lestrade gave a meaningful tilt of his head towards the sofa.

"Yeah, I'm sure. You go home. You've got to work tomorrow and it's late. Doctor's order's."

"Well, since you put it that way, goodnight, John. Oh...I'll let you know what I find out."

"Thank you. I would appreciate that. Goodnight, Greg."

John made sure everything was locked up for the night, then went up stairs to get his own pillows and blanket. The over stuffed chair would do. He didn't want to be upstairs if Sherlock woke in the night and took it into his head to try to get up.

000

John was drifting peacefully towards wakefulness when the sound of china softly ringing against china registered. He jilted into full wakefulness half rising from his chair, his first thought being that Sherlock had some how made it out to the kitchen. He threw a glance towards the sofa then huffed a sigh of relief. His patient remained blissfully prone.

"A hard night, dear? So rare to catch both of you sleeping."

John scrubbed his face with both hands. _How it is she slept through all that...or maybe she is used to it...bloody hell...I'm hardly used to it._

"I've made you a nice breakfast. Mr. Shepard brought over more fresh eggs and baked ham then I can possibly use."

"He's sweet on you, Mrs. Hudson."

She blushed but patted his cheek. "You do say the nicest things, John."

"Oh, and don't worry about the mess, Mrs. Hudson. I'm cleaning it up."

"A bit of late night company, then?"

"Something like that."

000

As soon as DI Lestrade got to his office, he filled out the request forms for all of the files and physical evidence on the FitzWalter case. Then he had placed the call to Mycroft Holmes and was told that the man was in a very important meeting and couldn't possibly come to the phone and was there a message? He told the woman that it was rather urgent pertaining to Holmes the Younger then pretty much hung up on her. _Maybe that will get someone's bloody attention. _Then he turned his attention to the workings of the Metro police and New Scotland Yard.

Some twenty minutes later he was informed that he had a phone call from a Mr. Mycroft Holmes.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes."

"Good morning, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Might I surmise that my brother is in some difficulty? "

"No more then usual, all things considered. I'm calling to request Sherlock's medical records from June through August 2007."

"Why would you need this information? It is very old news, after all."

"Mr. Holmes, if I am going to put in a request to reopen an old case for the purpose of investigating a suspected attempted murder, I am going to need all the supporting evidence I can get my hands on."

"What has changed your mind about the cause of my brother's collapse?"

"He did. And the fact that I have remembered every detail of that day in living color. I have to take full responsibility for not realizing that he was telling me the truth when he said that the injection was not self-inflicted." _Of course, you spiriting him away like you did was less then conductive to a proper __investigation, you bloody sod! Not to mention the fact that you withheld that particular information all this time, Git._

"Very well. You shall have all the information you require on your desk by the end of the day."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes.

"At your service, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

As promised, a manila envelope was delivered to Lestrade's desk by special courier right after lunch. Lestrade opened and scanned it. He decided that he would have to ask John to take a look at it and translate all the medical jargon he couldn't navigate himself. But one thing he was sure of, there was no mention anywhere of any of the substances that Sherlock had been known to resort to.

000

After breakfast, John cleared away the tray of used mugs and spoons. Both the coffee and tea had been drunk to the dregs, the milk was gone as well. John sighed. _Bloody milk. Makes one almost believe in Brownies the way the stuff disappears around here. No way do I dare pop out to the store either._ Then it was time for a shower. Then a session on his blog. After the post came, he grabbed the paper and started to scan it. Knowing that his flatmate always read through the personal columns, he did as well, marking anything that showed some interest above the scale of six. He was not looking forwards to the six week lay up. If he could find anything at all that would help him deal with this particular invalid, he would jump on it. A slight shifting took his attention away from his reading to the sofa.

"Good morning."

"Is it" The voice was raspy and heavy with sleep...or pain...or both.

John moved to sit on the coffee table, letting his eyes tell him all he needed to know about his patient's current condition.

"What happened...no, no. I don't need "the look". I know you took a pretty bad beating."

"Ah...I made a slight miscalculation. I was expecting the two. I missed the third assailant. But they badly underestimated me. To my advantage."

"Sherlock, you need to use your diaphragm. That shallow breathing isn't doing you any good."

"I must beg to differ."

"Really, you silly git. You either start taking fuller breaths or I call an ambulance. I am not equipped to handle a full blown case of pneumonia. Look, I'm not saying you can't take a rest now and again. But you have got to get that lung capacity up. So every time you think of it, take a deep breath. Oi! Don't you dare delete that either. Yes, I know your in pain. And yes, this is going to cause more discomfort. But really, there's nothing for it. Breathe as normally as possible or I put that call through now."

"John, I really must protest."

John knew how difficult this was going to be. Cracked ribs hurt like hell. He had every sympathy, he really did. He leaned forward, fingers laced, his elbows resting on his knees.

"There's no need to protest, your ribs are going to be doing enough of that for you."

Sherlock knew the doctor in John well enough to know that when he took his stand nothing could move him. Not even Mycroft Holmes had been able to bell him. So Sherlock worked on drawing a cautious breath. When he hit the point of pain, he clamped his mind down against it and pushed back. It was not until the word "edge" flashed in his mind's eye that he stopped and let his force of will retreat. It left him feeling trembling and weak and he despised it. But the smile of encouragement on his blogger's face was enough. It could be accomplished.

For dinner it was sips of water and a hearty broth for the invalid. John was content to spread the cooked vegetables and barley on toast, washing it down with tea. The rest of the afternoon was spent with the occupants of 221 B dozing or John reading the personal columns out loud. Supper was much the same. A battered body needed fuel to heal and Sherlock was going to get as close to three meals a day as John could manage to get into him. After the dishes were cleared away, John sat down to read some more. Sherlock started to doze off when the door bell rang through the flat. John hurried down to find Lestrade on the door step. He was ushered in and up the stairs.

Sherlock's eyes went from Lestrade's face to the sheaf of files in the DI's hands and he eagerly held out his own for them. Lestrade handed them over.

"Joy! Bless you, Lestrade. It's Christmas all over again."

John looked on in amazement as Sherlock began to dig into them enthusiastically.

"Cold cases. Thought they would help keep him occupied while he's laid up." He held out a manila envelope to John. "This is the medical report from Mycroft."


	6. Chapter 6

**Well, this was a bit of a challenge. I hope it came out all right. **

**Just to clarify, I will never write slash and pairings. Yes, there has been any number of books dealing with the subject of their "maybe" homosexuality. They did walk down the street "arm in arm" and on occasion held hands. But then this might have been totally acceptable Victorian behavior. In the canon Dr. John. H Watson was married at least three times that Sherlockian historians can find evidence of and they always didn't live together or see each other on a regular bases. Sherlock always seemed more asexual. I know they are exploring these themes in the series, and that is fine with me. **

**As always I own nothing pertaining to Sherlock Holmes, nor BBC's Sherlock.**

John took the manila envelope but he gave Lestrade a worried look. It wasn't lost on the DI.

"What's wrong?"

"I...Greg, I know you meant well and yes, those files will keep him occupied..."

"But what?"

"He can't afford to stop eating. Not now."

"I...oh."

"Would it be helpful if I promised to eat as long as I am...confined." This last word fairly spat out.

"You would do that, even when you're working on one of those files?"

"They are cold, John. I can't very well go and look at a body that was removed from the scene years ago. So yes, I can promise that. As long was what you put before me is palatable. Why would Mycroft send you medical records?"

Sherlock tracked between Lestrade and John, then settled and locked on Lestrade. "It was over three years ago. It has no relevance now."

Lestrade sat down on the coffee table, Sherlock never taking his eyes off of him.

"Because I know now that I was wrong. You didn't slip up, I did. And for that, Sherlock, I am deeply sorry."

Sherlock's attention returned to the file under his hand. "Apology accepted."

"Look. Since it is clear that this was a case of attempted murder. I'm going to..."

Sherlock cut across him. "Mycroft said he had his people look into it. They found nothing conclusive."

"Is that why he didn't share you medical records with us?"

"My dear brother does not share his motives gladly. But you are welcome to ask him."

"Do you remember anything about what happened?"

"To what purpose. I survived."

"Wouldn't it be helpful to know why someone would want to kill you in the manner they did?"

"Since Mycroft couldn't find any trail leading to a suspect, it didn't seem important. As to the fact that a needle was used, the reasoning behind the "manner" is quite clear."

John was sure both he and Lestrade knew exactly what Sherlock was getting at.

"What was one more dead junkie."

Sherlock merely nodded."

Lestrade sighed."And it almost worked."

" To the Metro force, I was and still am, an interloper, a nuisance, and a known drug addict. If I had died, some might have thought it unfortunate. But none would considered it totally unexpected."

John felt numb. Not for the first time since meeting both Holmes brothers had he thought about what kind of childhood could it have been to allow an adult human being to be able to look at life in such a detached, clinical manner? Up to and including his own death. His own murder, for God's sake?

"Sherlock..."

The man on the sofa glanced up at Lestrade and his eyes softened slightly as they sometimes could, a bare hint of a smile touching the corners of his mouth.

"Yes, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, I do know. You would have been one of the very few to think it unfortunate."

O_h, God _"Anyone up for tea?"

"Am I allowed coffee, John?"

"Yes, of course. I'll brew a fresh pot."

John found Lestrade as his side. "I'll make the tea."

It had to be a very carefully choreographed dance to allow the two men to maneuver in that limited space.

"Oh, bloody hell."

Lestrade shot a look at him.

"There's no milk. I'll be right back."

"Get something to go with this, yeah?"

"Sure." John grabbed his coat and was down the stairs and out the door.

The making of proper English tea was a bit of a ritual and Lestrade was glad of it. If John was upset, he was angry. He knew that the criminologists followed Sherlock's blog faithfully. His experiments might be strange, even gruesome, but they did yield practical results, and they were closely scrutinized and discussed for days on end. Despite his being socially challenged, and careless in his sarcasm and insults, Sherlock was the most observant, most thorough crime scene investigator Lestrade had ever seen. The man missed nothing, or precious little. He latched onto every detail and didn't let go. And for someone to deliberately try to make him into nothing more then a tragic footnote, w_ell, for my part, I am going to do everything in my power to find out the who and how of it all, and if there was more to the "why" of it, all the better._

When John returned, he was not only carrying milk but a large boxed cake and two gallons of ice cream At Lestrade's quizzical look, John burst out the explanation.

"He needs the sugar. He lost a good amount of blood last night. The calcium will help with the healing of the ribs, and he just happens to like strawberry ice cream."

Then he took a deep breathe. " Sorry...I'm..sorry." John opened the freezer and immediately slammed it shut and shuddered then carefully reopened it to take a closer look.

"It's pig."

"It's what?"

"One of Mr. Shepard's over flowing displays of sentiment for Mrs. Hudson, John. It's a ham."

John tossed in the boxes of ice cream and slammed the freezer shut.

"Ha...bloody...ha, Sherlock."

"Please calm yourself."

"Right, like I ever know what I'm going to find when I open this door."

Sherlock let his head drop back against the pillows. John was such an emotional being. It was rare when he couldn't be read, but he was a very good doctor and good at watching one's back. Nor was he easily intimidated by any one. The Holmes' included. But now John seemed to be upset...why should John be upset? Obviously it was something he, Sherlock, had said...but what was it?

"John, go out. Maybe to a pub. You can ask Lestrade to go with you, if he so chooses. I promise to behave."

John glanced at Lestrade who shrugged then nodded. "Ok, yeah."

"Where's your phone?"

"Coat. Inside pocket."

John came up with it and tossed it in Sherlock's direction who snagged it cleanly out of the air.

"Now go."

"You call..."

"Stop mothering. Go."

John collected his coat and headed for the stairs, Greg following.

000

Lestrade sat down at his desk the next morning to find a signed release form for the material pertaining to the FitzWalter murders. Mycroft might be a major git but he got things done. Lestrade first went to the evidence locker to check through the box of material evidence. He searched through it carefully looking for anything that could be used to inject something liquid into the body. He sighed when he realized this search had been a fruitless dead end. He went back to his office and picked up the case file and opened that. And for the first time he felt a glimmer of hope. The crime scene photographer had taken a whole raft of pictures. He hated to do it but he slipped the folder away. This would have to wait until the end of the day when he was off duty.

000

Lestrade was once again ensconced in a chair in front of the unlit fireplace at 221B. The company was far better then his own empty flat since his wife had seen fit to take off, again. He had doled out the packet of crime scene photos and all three occupants were carefully scrutinizing them.

"When you said this scene was a bloody mess, I thought you were making a bit of a joke. This must have been hellish."

"More for the victims then for us. But, no. It wasn't any kind of picnic to process."

"What is this?" John leaned over to show his photo to Lestrade. "This object here. It looks to be a little longer then an ink pen but it's more substantial."

Lestrade took the photo and studied it for a moment. "We need a magnifying glass."

"Use my microscope."

John took the photo and tweaked it until he could get a clear view of the image. "It's an epipen."

All three men when silent. Until Lestrade broke in.

"But Sherlock was poisoned. How does an epipen figure into that. It's an injector, true..."

"It wasn't me..."

John glanced up at Sherlock. "Yes, we get that..."

"No, no... Mycroft."

Sherlock rummaged for his phone and started punching in numbers. A look of annoyance flickered across his face as he was forced to end that call and make another.

"Anthea, where is my brother. He isn't..."

No! Don't you dare put me on hold. It's... Listen to me, please. It's imperative I speak with him, now. Yes, of course it is serious. Deadly. Serious... Thank you. John, Lestrade, see if that thing shows up in any of the consequential photos. Puzzle them together as much as possible. Yes. Thank you. Mycroft, does "epipen" mean anything to you? Poison infused. This is to elaborate for an amateur Who do you know with the knowledge and expertise...of course you can come. Tomorrow would be satisfactory. See you at 1:30 then."


	7. Chapter 7

**To all those who have reviewed, followed, favored and just read this, blessings and thank you. I hope I am successful in keeping your interest to the very end. **

**As always, I do not own anything pertaining to the original Sherlock Holmes nor BBCs Sherlock**

John had been told , quite politely, course, to please sit quietly. Not a sound, thank you very much. And, if he could manage it at all, for God's sake, please, do not think!

So, he sat. Sherlock's hands were, mantis like, prayerfully steepled, his chin resting on them, his eyes closed. Mycroft was in the over stuffed chair facing the sofa, right hand resting on the curved handle of his ever present umbrella. A frown was fixed on his features, eyes focused on the middle distance. After what seemed like hours, Mycroft's body relaxed with a heavy sigh.

"I cannot say I am entirely happy with this, Sherlock."

"Alternative suggestions?" The clear hazel eyes opened and slid towards his brother.

Mycroft's nostril's flared and he pursed his lips.

"None."

"How would one make contact?"

"He does have a blog."

"Excellent."

"You will need security. This you cannot, will not, refuse."

"Your own, or The Metro?"

"I suppose DI Lestrade should be notified. He did target a civilian, after all."

"But I..."

"Yes, I know. You were to be nothing more then collateral damage. He failed in that respect and we must take every precaution to be sure this attempt fails as well."

John looked between the two brothers, alarm bells going off in his head. _Did these two just decide to set Sherlock up as some kind of bait?_

"Do not be alarmed, Dr. Watson. My brother's safety is paramount. No harm will come to him.

"How can you be so bloody sure?"

"We will, I believe the saying goes, have his back."

000

Lestrade was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a happy man. He was no stranger to sting operations, this was true. But the people commonly involved were police officers well trained in this kind of operation, not amateur civilians. At least Dr. John Watson was military trained and could handle himself in a tight situation. Sherlock was no slouch when it came to a fight under normal circumstances. But right now his injuries were proving to be a serious handicap. Mycroft had made it clear that his suspicions may be baseless and nothing may come of them in the end. That was a hope that Lestrade was willing to cling to.

000

John stretched and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and found himself looking at an empty sofa. He unfolded himself from the chair and made his way out to the kitchen.

"Oi, mate! Don't take to long, yeah?"

He tapped lightly on the bathroom door as he passed. The door moved slightly under the slight pressure and there was no answer from within.

"Oh, Sherlock dear, are you sure?"

There was an answer in the familiar baritone and with a muttered curse John headed for the staircase. Sherlock was leaning heavily against the wall on the first landing.

"What in the bloody hell do you think you're up to you idiot!" John started down.

"Stay there John, I'm coming up."

John watched as his flatmate pushed away from the wall.

"Is this absolutely necessary?"

Sherlock moved slowly towards him, taking one step at a time.

"If the man is still after Mycroft and does take the bait, I have to appear to be alone and on my own. I certainly do not want Mrs. Hudson to answer the door. I don't want her anywhere near this. Hence, I must be able to navigate the stairs under my own power."

Sherlock gained the top landing and moved through to the sofa and eased himself down.

"It's been over three years. Why wait so long before making another try for Mycroft?"

"We don't actually know that he will. But, according to my brother, he is still in operation and has started to hide his activities from his own agency and the government. Mycroft's suspicions are up and so we will run through this little exercise. If nothing comes of it, no harm done.

"Except it has forced you out of bed far sooner then I like."

" The cases are helping but they offer no physical stimulus. I cannot visit a scene. I cannot observe or touch for myself how things lay. I am starting to get bored just lying here."

"But I have seen you lay on that sofa, days on end without a word, for heaven's sake."

"Yes, of course I can. But it is my choice. Not because I made a stupid, stupid mistake."

"Is the pain very bad?"

"I have intermittent headaches, not severe. Most around the site of the sutures. My chest and back are multiple deep aches, and breathing is still troublesome. I feel somewhat weak when I exert myself, but that may be due to the fact I have lain inactive for so long."

"You also lost a lot of blood from those head wounds, and, your muscles are bruised and in need of rest and healing as well. Since your breathing is still wonky, your oxygen levels are probably down which, by the way, will make you feel weak after exertion."

"Thank you, Dr. Watson. Points taken."

"Actually moving around may not be a bad idea, as long as you do nothing strenuous nor over do it. I just wish you would hold off on the stairs."

"And I have given you my reasons as to why I must not hold off. I will monitor myself carefully. If I do feel light headed on the stairs I will simply, sit down."

John looked askance at that. He had seen this man drop apparently without any forewarning at all. Sherlock answered the look by arching one brow and locking eyes with him.

"Oh, very well. Probably couldn't stop you anyway. Just, please, do be careful. A fall down stairs would be no bloody joke."

000

It was agreed upon by Lestrade and Mycroft that Sherlock would not attempt to make contact with the suspected poisoner until the logistics of putting a police presence in the flat could be worked out. Sherlock would be wired if the man showed signs of taking the bait. John found the extra time a Godsend in terms of giving Sherlock's injuries more time to heal. John was successful in keeping the man indoors but sometimes it felt like he was playing a waiting game. Sherlock was like a caged cat, a very large primal cat, and it wasn't a comfortable feeling. But to give the man his due he threw himself into the case files Lestrade had provided and was actually making a great deal of progress in solving them, which really, came to no one's surprise.

000

"I think it is now time to put this little plan of ours into operation. You may proceed with contact. MH"

"It will be done within the hour. SH"

Sherlock navigated to the website that Mycroft had provided him. It proved to be a treatise on how to reuse such things as disposables like epipens and sealed medicine bottles that seemed useless once they were empty. So he left his prearranged message and prepared to wait for any reply. He had it within two hours of the posting. The man indicated that he was very interested in Sherlock's proposal and wanted to meet in person. The Baker Street address was given and the appointment was made for the next day around two thirty pm.

"Contact made. He has indicated interest in face to face meeting. 221B tomorrow two thirty pm. SH"

He had no problem in sending both messages simultaneously to both Mycroft and Lestrade. Mycroft landed at Baker Street at noon the next day followed closely by Lestrade and his people. Cars where driven and hidden away in various spots close by. The wire was placed and a police woman was assigned to Mrs. Hudson. Not that she was thought to be in danger, but she did tend to answer the door if Sherlock seemed slow to do so and they didn't know how long it would take the injured man to get down the stairs on his own. So she was consigned to her apartment for the duration. Which made Sherlock and John very happy. At two twenty the police, Mycroft and John melted into the woodwork and the waiting began. The ring of the door bell came at exactly two thirty. Sherlock went down and ushered his visitor into 221B.

Sherlock offered his guest refreshment, which was refused, so the trap was set to be sprung.

"The fact that this can be done at all is fascinating. But how is it done so that it doesn't look like it's been tampered with? I mean, that is the point, isn't it? To be able to totally slip it by the police?"

"And your brother."

"You know my brother?" Sherlock laughed "Oh, well, it hardly matters. We don't get on. My habit is none of his concern."

"Oh, but your habit is everything."

"I don't understand." John could hear the smile in Sherlock's voice with a hint of puzzlement.

"Really, I could teach you everything about these "pens" and how to make them foolproof. But in the end, it would prove to be a colossal waste of my time, and yours. So let's get on with it, shall we?"

"Get on with what?" There was no mirth what so ever in Sherlock's voice now. "If you're not going to help me..."

"Oh, this isn't about me helping you. It's about how you are going to assist me."

"You're going to help me bring about the downfall of Mycroft Holmes."

"Downfall of...my brother...a very minor member of the government...an accountant..." Sherlock did laugh then.

"You do underestimate him...and yourself, Mr Holmes. Your death will rock the foundations of his world. And I will be there to pick up the pieces."

"Mmm...my...death?"

"I tried this a few years ago, you see. But it really was clumsy. To dramatic. Of course it was an experiment of sorts and to that end it was a resounding success. I just didn't anticipate your brother getting to you in time. No, I think perhaps simple and straightforward is best after all."

"I think you should leave." The listeners could hear a hint of doubt and fear was well.

"I will be going soon. But not before you indulge. I've brought you a little present. Just that one delicious prick of the needle and I'll be done."

There was the slightest catch in Sherlock's breathing

"No. No, I won't."

"I must insist Mr. Holmes. I've done my research, you understand. A perfect seven percent solution, with a little something special added, of course. How long has it been since you have felt that euphoria of escape?"

Sherlock's breath quickened through the wire.

"I can't. I promised Mycroft."

"Oh please. Promises are broken all the time. Ah, I can see it on your face. You want this badly now, don't you?"

"I really think..." The voice was husky.

"Don't move, Mr. Holmes. I've read the papers. I know you've been badly hurt. If you don't do this yourself, I'm prepared to do it for you."

"Why? Why are you doing this?" The fear was in full evidence now.

"Your brother, what ever you believe of him, is a very powerful man. He is untouchable. But you, you are the lynchpin. I can use your most unfortunate weakness for narcotics and resulting death to undermine his power and influence. It might not happen tomorrow, or next month, but a rumor here, a doubt there about his family's history of mental and emotional instability and sooner or later he will fall and I'll be there to fill the gap."

"You are insane."

There was the sharp sound of a open handed slap.

"Don't. You. Dare. Call. Me. That!" Take it!"

John had heard enough and was through the door of the small foyer to confront this mad man.

"Get away from him, Now!"

The flat was filled with the metallic sound of his pistol going onto full cock. Mycroft, Lestrade and his officers fanned out into the living room weapons drawn.

"Down on the floor! Hands behind your back!"

John stood down and eased his weapon away. The man went to his knees hands behind his back, his eyes locked with Sherlock's. The contact lasted until the man was handcuffed.

It was Mycroft who approached the coffee table. There in a nest of mahogany hued velvet and silk lay the gleaming glass and metal syringe. He gently slid the cover closed. He watched as his brother's eyes slid away and they closed momentarily. But when they made contact again, they were clear and held a hint of mirth and control. Mycroft handed the box off to Lestrade who ordered it bagged and tagged. The walls of the flat gave back the strobe light as the Metro cars eased into Baker Street.

Lestrade and his people escorted their prisoner out of the flat and was soon on their way to NSY for processing. Mycroft looked at John.

Might we have some tea...and coffee?"

"Oh, yes. Of course."

"Sherlock?"

"I'm fine, Mycroft."

"I always said that the stage would be missing one of it's finest actors if you failed to take it. Well played."

"Thank you."

Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt and removed the police wire, placing it on the coffee table.

"You were right about him. Quite insane. You are too well regarded, a peer to the realm, to be thought of in such a such a loathsome manner."

"You said he worked for the government or some agency?"

"Yes, secret service, to be exact."

"Assassination."

"Most discreet, of course."


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank you everyone for the feedback and the reading of this. So very much appreciated. **

**Spoilers for "The Adventure of the Illustrious Client" return.**

**As always I own nothing pertaining to Sherlock Holmes or John H. Watson.**

John returned laying out the cups and mugs of tea and coffee. He left the kettle on low heat just in case Lestrade should decide to come back to the flat. Once there was cream and sugar provided, John moved to inspect the red hand print gracing Sherlock's left cheek.

"It's nothing."

John had to concur so he retrieved his tea and sat.

"Why did he take so long, Mycroft. I mean, I understand that he needed to make it look like an accidental over doze, but why wait almost four years to try again?"

"That's a question I think we would all like the answer to."

"Water is hot, Greg."

Lestrade moved through to the kitchen and soon returned to find a perch.

"That syringe was a pretty thing, if you can label such dangerous things as "pretty"."

"Antique. Probably early Victorian when such vices were deemed innocuous and were legal."

"He had really planned this thoroughly, hadn't he. It still doesn't explain why it took him all this time to try again. Then it was only after Sherlock made contact. But he was more then prepared to take advantage should the opportunity come his way."

"He might be insane, but that doesn't he is necessarily stupid. Did he actually believe that his plan would work? That through me he could topple you?"

"It would have come to nothing, Sherlock. As I said, Ma'am holds you in great esteem. How many times have you been summoned for the express purpose of having some honor bestowed upon you? Which you always turn down, for whatever reason. Our family's idiosyncrasies are well known. But if this had been successful, She would have been greatly disappointed in you."

Sherlock shot him a scathing look only to get a tight lipped superior smile in return. Hazel eyes rolled and slid away. Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.

John and Lestrade eye the two brothers. It was John who recovered first.

"That...ahhheemm...yes...well. That may very well be. But what about the...eemmm...lower ranks. Could there be something there. I mean..."

"What do you mean, John?"

"Well, it may be all well and good for Buckingham Palace to accept everything at face value, but really. Where does our true government lie? What about Parliament?"

Sherlock looked at John then smiled and sent him a wink.

"My conductor of light. And there it is, Mycroft. The cold truth as to why I would never join you in government work. Politicians with their Russian doll minds. I know the criminal mind. I know where my enemies lie. Can you say the same, brother?"

John and Lestrade watched as the two brothers eye's locked. Sherlock's tightened and narrowed. Mycroft held then look a deep breath.

"Things may not be as clear cut, true. But I do have my resources. What ever this is, I will find it out. Now if you will excuse me, it seems I have work to do. Be well, Sherlock. Goodnight, John, Detective Inspector."

Sherlock tracked him until he disappeared down the stairs. Then his fingers steepled and pressed against his lips, his eyes seeking the middle distance.

"Will he be alright, you think?"

"What? Oh. Yes. There is a reason why Mycroft does not move in the circles of high society. It's easier to track your enemies if you are not constantly surrounded by them. Nor does it make an easy task for them to ensnare you. He has also been forewarned."

"Forewarned, of what?"

"That is the question, is it not, Lestrade? He must determine if this man worked alone, or if there is a larger plot."

John watched and listened. An idea forming in his mind. A question begging to be asked, but not right yet and he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

000

Dear Mr. Holmes,

Violet has told me that she and the Baron are taking ship in four day's time. Despite everything I try to do, she vows she will not give him up. Please, please, if there is anything at all you can do?

Your servant

de Merville

TO: de Merville

RE: Violet

"I am preparing to take the case to Gruner in two day's time."

SH

"Billy, bring Miss Winter around to Baker Street this afternoon at 3:30 SH"

" Right you are, gov. BW"

000

"Anything promising?"

"No, I'm not taking on anything at the moment."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh please. You do not have to look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Surprised but extremely pleased at the same time."

"Do I?"

"Oh, don't be so dull!"

"Two more weeks, Sherlock. Just...give yourself that much longer."

"Do. I. Have. A Choice!"

"No. No, not really. Do you have any of Lestrade's case files left?"

"Three. I saved them. They held points more challenging then the others."

"Good idea."

"What?"

"Solving them in order of difficulty."

"You noticed that?"

"I'm not stupid."

"Of course you're not."

"Was that sarcasm?"

"Why? Did you want me to be sarcastic?"

"No, of course I didn't."

"Right then."

"It's just, with you it's hard to tell."

"Mmmmmm."

John rolled his eyes with a shake of his head and went up to his room to shower and change into his working clothes. He was pulling the evening shift but had a few errands to attend to first. He decided to to make a pass through the living room to check on the grocery situation.

"You're working tonight."

"Yes. Is there anything I can get you before I go?"

His answer was a tight lipped smile and having a file waved at him.

"Right. See you in the morning."


	9. Chapter 9

**All of you who are following this are just fantastic. It is wildly appreciated. Spoilers for "The Adventure of the Illustrious Client."**

**I own nothing at all to do with Sherlock Holmes and BBC's Sherlock.**

Once he heard the front door close and latch, Sherlock tossed the file away and shot off a quick e-mail. "If it is convenient this afternoon, I have someone who knows first hand The Baron's indiscretions. Please advise earliest time. SH"

Less then forty five minutes he had his confirmation. A meeting with the de Merville's at five thirty. Now it was time for a shower and dressing before his three thirty appointment arrived. When the door bell rang, he made his way down. Finding Billy and Miss Winter on the door step, he paid his Irregular and ushered the woman up to the flat. Miss Winter was a blond, pale, youthful woman. But it was clear to the observant that she had experienced years of hardship and sorrow.

"You're after a man who deserves to be in the lowest gutters of London, Mr. Holmes."

He gave her a smile. "I gather I have your good wishes?"

"If I can help to put him where he belongs then I'm yours." Her anger was fierce and energetic.

"You understand how the matter stands then?"

"Porky has been telling me all about it, yeah. That the Baron has snagged himself another woman and this times he means to marry her, and that you are trying to put a stop to it. Well, you know enough about this devil to prevent any descent girl in her right mind from wanting to have anything to do with him."

"Ah yes, and there's the rub. She is not in her right mind she is in love. She has been told all about him. She refuses to believe it."

"Even the murders?"

"Yes."

"Can't you lay proofs before her?"

"Will you help us do so?"

"Ain't I proof enough? If I stood before her and told her how he used..."

"You would be willing to do this?"

"Would I not!"

"It might be worth the effort. But he has told her all and found pardon from her."

"I doubt he has told her everything. He hinted to me about one or two murders besides his last wife's. But like this woman, I couldn't find it in my heart to fault him. Only one thing he showed me that shook my faith in him."

"And what was that, Miss Winter?"

"A book, Mr. Holmes. All brown leather with his coat-of-arms engraved in gold on it's front cover. He collects women, see? Each one goes into his book with pictures and descriptions and every other detail he can record. It ain't the kind of thing any descent human being would do. But he's done it."

"How do you know of it's existence?"

"We got tipsy one night and he dug it out. I tell you what, Mr Holmes after a few glimpses, I wasn't drunk no more. I was feeling all cold and shivery like."

"Do you know where he keeps it?"

"Well now. It's been over a year since I left him. But there is a small study where he keeps all his papers and things. If it's anywhere at all, it might still be there. Have you ever been to his house?"

"I have been in his study."

"Well, that's a bit all right. That would be the one with all the oriental crockery. There is a desk. Behind that is a door. That's to the inner study."

"Very well, and thank you Miss Winter. But now we have to be on our way to see Violet de Merville."

Sherlock slammed the front door of 221B and moved up the stairs. _God_! What had made him think that he could persuade a woman to see the logical side of anything, especially the danger to her own well being, when she was so wrapped up in her..._say_ _it_..._just_..._say_.._it_..._Damn_! _Bloody! Emotions! THERE! _ Not even Miss Winter could persuade her. Not even when Miss Winter pointed out that she could easily wind up in a refuse heap...or worse. Miss Winter held nothing back. But in the end it was nothing but words. Words that could be thrown back, denied, scorned and refused. Sherlock paced a few steps to gracefully spin and pace another few steps. _Maybe I should have let Miss Winter start a cat fight. Oh, but wouldn't that have been a thing..._Sherlock dropped his head into his hands messaging his temples..._stop it! Just...think! _He perched cross legged in his favorite chair and drummed his fingers. Then his fingers began to slow. _Ah...yes. But there are pictures. Pictures cannot be denied...a book...how to get..."the bloody book"? _

He closed his eyes, fingers steepled before his lips. It didn't take at all long. A smile slowly took form and he opened his eyes. _Oh yes. _He checked his watch finding it to late to call the London Library or de Merville. Then he jumped online. Getting onto the Library's website he found a volume that looked likely and reserved it.

000

Sherlock was up early and on the phone. Once to the Library of London then on to de Merville.. Within a few hours the doorbell rang and he made his way down stairs. On the doorstep he found a special courier. Only after many assurances and signatures was he permitted to carry the precious package up to the flat. There he carefully unpacked and placed a small box on the mantel. The volume arrived soon after.

"Good morning, Sherlock."

"Good morning, John."

John frowned at the large book on Oriental porcelain and antiques now resting on the coffee table.

"Where did that come from?"

"Oh, the book? London Library. It's for research."

"I thought you said you weren't taking on any more cases right now."

"I'm not. This is for the de Merville problem."

John dropped into his chair. "Ooohhh right. What are you going to be doing?"

"I need your help"

"Oh, God."

"Baron Gruner has a book. I need it to save Miss de Merville. But to get it I need a diversion. He is an expert on Oriental Ceramics, has even written a book on the subject."

"How much time do you have?"

"Tomorrow night."

John dropped his head into his hands.

"A woman's life may be at stake."

"And where do I fit in?"

"I need you to study this until you are confident that you can carry on an intelligent conversation with a connoisseur of Chinese pottery."

Sherlock got up and John tracked him as the tall detective moved across to the mantel and came back with a box in his hand. Sherlock sat, carefully opening the thing and taking out something wrapped in oriental silk. He held out the object to John.

"Handle this very carefully. It is from the Ming dynasty. A whole set would be worth a king's ransom."

John took the deep blue saucer of egg shell pottery gently in his fingers. "It is beautiful."

"I want you to know it's history, inside and out. For you are going to be passing if off as a part of your own collection."

"My collection?"

Sherlock handed him a business card.

"This is going to be your persona. Dr.. Hill Barton, 369 Half Moon Street. A doctor but also a collector. This piece is from a set that has come into your possession and you are willing to part with it, for a price."

"How much exactly is it worth?"

Sherlock shot him a genuine smile. "Well asked indeed. It would be a sad thing if you did not know the value of your own pieces. This is from de Merville. You would not be at all exaggerating if you said it was priceless."

John fell into thought for a moment or two. "I suppose I could suggest that it be valued by one of the houses."

"Excellent! Yes. Do suggest then Christie or Sotheby."

"But Sherlock, what if he won't see me?"

"Never fear. He will not be able to resist it. He has a mania about his collecting. You will send a note before hand explaining that you are coming and why."

"And you want me to do all this in twenty four hours?"

"If you would."

John grabbed the book and opened it. "Why do I let you talk me into these things. Wait a minute."

Sherlock looked at him eyebrow quirked.

"I said two more weeks"

"I'll be very careful. I won't run. I'll take taxis. This doesn't have weeks, John. Only hours."

"Right."


	10. Chapter 10

**Here it is, finally, the last chapter. Spoiler's on the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle story "The Adventure of the Illustrious Client" Can't lay claim to any of them, can we? Darn it. Hope you enjoy it. Thanks to all of you who have read, reviewed and followed this. It's been a treat.**

**As always, I own nothing pertaining to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes nor BBC's Sherlock.**

"You know, Sherlock, this is illegal. Breaking and Entering?"

"Yes, John. I am well aware of criminal law. But you would be in no wise threatened with criminal charge."

"And yet you choose..."

"To ignore it when it..."

"When it suites your purpose. Yes, I realize that."

Sherlock shot him a sharp glance.

"Are you thinking of not helping?"

"I just think there must be a better way. That's all."

"You had no qualms when we went looking for the Bruce Partington Plans."

"Well, I did protest breaking into that woman's brother's apartment, if you remember."

"But what? Oh yes. We were working for the "British government". But you still let me pick the lock."

"Pretty much, yeah."

Sherlock huffed. "Any idea's?"

"Well...maybe Metro has something on him. His wife probably isn't his first murder. Maybe not his last."

"No good, John. We need the proof before tomorrow afternoon. No time for the police."

"What is all this about a book anyway?"

"I found a woman. A woman who had relations with the Baron. He showed her a book..."

Sherlock got up and grabbed his laptop then dropped back onto the sofa.

"She said that he had a leather bound book where he collected pictures and profiles of all of his women. Even in this day and age there are people who refuse to make use of technology."

He booted up the machine and waited to upload to his homepage.

"According to this informant, as of two years ago the Baron was still relying on paper and long hand. A lot can change in that amount of time. He has written a book. A computer and printer would certainly speed up that process a great deal."

"What are you looking for?"

"A blog, Photo album...anything under his name or facsimile."

"What about the book and saucer?"

"Backup plan. Though it would be much more fun."

"No. Absolutely not."

"Could be..."

"Shut up! I'm not listening, Sherlock. Just keep looking."

"What if he proves to prefer scrap booking. One of those people who finds computer technology beyond...Oh my."

"What? You did find something."

"You best come look."

John moved around the table to peer over his flat mate's shoulder. The laptop's screen was taken up by the image of what looked like a book cover. Brown leather stamped with a heraldic device.

"John find the royal device for Gruner. See if this matches. This is exactly what Miss Winter described. And it has a lock."

"Subscribers then?"

"Mmmmmm...maybe not. It has a virtual key. He's clever, yes...but his arrogance is beyond measure. We know he collects women. Why does he? Because he can. He's of a royal house. Political immunity? Without a doubt. He can, and does intimidate judges and juries. Does away with witness and gets away with it. He is above the law, or so he believes. What is his other obsession? Oriental pottery. This he does not throw away. He cherishes it, locking it behind glass doors in a room where it can be seen and enjoyed. So. What kind of pass code would he use to unlock this most important of books?"

John thought for a few moments. "Well, it wouldn't be a woman's name, would it. I mean, he has no respect for them. So...what? One of the dynasties he collects the most of? Or pattern? He did write a book on the subject."

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. His eyes slowly stilled and focused. John settled working on his blog knowing that this silent shifting of memory could take awhile. Almost two hours later Sherlock became present.

"He finds women weak, inferior, lesser beings then himself. They are easily deceived and used. Only deserving of ill treatment, abandonment, even death. He puts each conquest under lock and key. What would he use to show these women that there is no power on earth or in heaven that can protect them from he who is all powerful.? Hate is often born of fear. Why does a man fear a woman? Because she has a power that man cannot comprehend. The first gods are said to be goddesses." I give you." Sherlock began to type. "Quan Yin." He punched enter. "The ancient oriental goddess deemed the protector of women."

The animated key slid into the lock with an audible click opening the file.

"God, Sherlock, this man is beyond sick."

"Pass me a memory stick, please. The sooner de Merville gets this, the better."

"I'll take it."

"Why would you?"

"I'm slated to work tonight. I can drop it off on my way and I can make sure you don't go out on your own, again."

John watched as Sherlock's mouth opened then closed with a slight quirk of an eyebrow as he pinned John.

"You deduced that...how?"

"Er, yes. Well, when I left yesterday there were two files on the coffee table. The third one you waved at me. This morning, there were still two files on the table while the third one was now scattered on the floor. I gather you tossed it away at some point. Knowing you, it was right after I left. Then there was the faint smell of cheap perfume. You said that the only case you were working on was the de Merville problem. You mentioned having a female witness in the case, so the perfume must belong to her. Lastly, your coat and scarf have been hanging neatly on the rack for weeks. This morning the coat was alright as far as I could tell, but the scarf was not hanging neatly like before but more like you had flung it."

"Brilliant! You are correct on every point."

"Am I?"

"Don't be modest. You know that you are. Well done, John. Well done indeed."

Sherlock pirated the file, making sure it was properly formatted to replay properly. Then he handed it over to John.

"If this doesn't break the engagement, nothing will. Be careful, John."

After John left, Sherlock picked up the scattered file and settled onto the sofa. John had made a proper hash of his plans for a little adventure but he had gotten what he needed for de Merville and that was all that mattered. He still had the Lestrade files at least.

000

John returned the next morning to find Sherlock meditating, a file laying open on his chest. The doctor moved into the kitchen to make himself a cuppa. For a very brief moment he considered toast and jam but his stomach immediately vetoed the thought. Once the tea was made he poured a strong mug full and moved into the living room and sat down at his computer.

"Your pale. A difficult night then." It wasn't a question.

"You could say that, yeah." John shook his head with a sigh.

"You know chemistry, ever work with sulfuric acid, Sherlock?"

"Of course." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Some one come in with acid burns?"

John visibly winched. "Someone threw the stuff into Baron Gruner's face."

This brought Sherlock to his feet. "Do they know who?"

"She confessed, yeah."

"A Miss Kitty Winter?"

John swallowed and nodded.

"That stupid, stupid woman!"

"Well, you know what they say about hell and the wrath of a woman scorned."

"Actually, no. I don't. Nor do I care to. You alright?"

"Fine, I'll be fine. She blinded him, Sherlock. And his face...oh dear God."

"Yes, I am very familiar with the acid's effects on bare flesh. But he is done, John. He will not terrorize another woman."

"A silver lining then."

"Indeed."


End file.
